


A Spot of Fraternising, and the Cost of Vulnerability

by Kevnis



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Fluff, M/M, PWP, excessive use of commas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-12-28 11:26:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21135941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kevnis/pseuds/Kevnis
Summary: A little something that dropped into my head without context and demanded to be written.





	A Spot of Fraternising, and the Cost of Vulnerability

They're in bed, but not asleep, and between page-turns, when he has one hand free, Aziraphale is tangling it absent-mindedly in the strands of soft hair that spill out over the pillow next to him. Crowley is silent, which for him is a sound equivalent to a cat's purr. When he's quiet like this, he's at peace. He isn't sleeping, or even trying to. He isn't reading. He's merely lying there, watching his angel, staying statue-still to best facilitate his use as a mannequin. After a while though, he speaks, mild and dulcet.

"You like playing with my hair?"

"Hm?" Comes the response, and then Aziraphale's mind catches up with the delay, registers Crowley's words, and he responds. "Oh yes."

His eyes finally break from the pages of his book, looking across at Crowley with a shadow of concern cast across them. "What about you?" He asks, "Do you like having it played with?"

Crowley snorts softly in the back of his throat, as if it's terribly amusing that Aziraphale would even ask. "Only always."

They share a small, soft smile, charged with humour and fondness, and then Aziraphale goes back to reading. Back to tangling his fingers delicately through his ancient enemy's familiar locks.

From the pillow, his voice softer now, but just a touch _rougher_, too, Crowley murmurs:

"You want to play with the rest of me?"

Aziraphale's eyes stop moving across the words in front of him. His fingers stop moving through Crowley's hair, frozen in space and in time. His whole body is rigid. He doesn't breathe.

Crowley waits, patient, and when after a few moments the angel still hasn't recovered, he prompts him with a gentle, vocal nudge.

"Is that a no?" The question isn't weighted with anything. It's open-ended. There is no wrong answer.

Aziraphale clears his throat, but for some reason it doesn't free him of the blockage that seems to have suddenly stopped it.

"It isn't a no." He eventually confesses, his words barely rasping past his sudden bout of self-strangulation. He is blushing already with the knowledge of how brazen he is about to be. But he forges on with it, says what it is that he wants to say.

"I believe the term you used is _only always_."

Aziraphale can feel Crowley's gaze on him in his periphery, burning into his temple, yellow and expectant and bright, and that makes it all the worse. He can feel the way the corner of the serpent's mouth is hooking into a half-smile, too. The flush is rising in his cheeks even more now, making him look like a bleeding sunset, he is sure, and it feels hot as hellfire. He still hasn't moved. He licks his lips, swallows thickly, as he gently extracts his fingers from Crowley's hair and uses both hands, slowly and methodically, to mark his place in his book and set it carefully away on the bedside table. Crowley is still watching him through all of it, waiting patiently like a crocodile who peacefully drifts on the water's surface with its eyes on the approaching wildebeest.

Aziraphale slides under the covers, bringing himself down level with his companion, turns on his side to meet his gaze at last. His touch is hesitant at first - it always is - but he finds Crowley's waist under the sheets, slides his hand into its slight, welcoming curve, lets the satin friction of their skin preserve and generate the heat that now rises through his whole body. Crowley is lying on his side too, a mirror of Aziraphale. One hand is touching his own neck, stroking it now, absently self-stimulating. His other reaches hungrily across the narrow but unbearable gap between them, finds Aziraphale's shoulder, and the fingers spread across the round of it supportively. Reassuringly. Aziraphale finds the strength to slide his hand down to Crowley's hip.

"What do you want?" Aziraphale asks, desperately, in barely more than a whisper. In response, Crowley gives him a smile that is both comforting and sly, and he rolls onto his back, the pressure from his hand guiding Aziraphale to follow. It's not what he was expecting, but it is equally as overwhelming as anything he could have imagined. Crowley, though warming now, is cold beneath him, a few degrees above room temperature at most. He is also prone, open, so very willing, so very _not _in control. It isn't like him. Aziraphale will remember that. He'll take note of it. He'll go slow, check in often. It isn't a conscious choice he makes. It's instinctive, a function of his angelic concern. Of his romantic concern, for one he cares for far too much.

"Just _touch_, angel," Is all the serpent bids for now, "Try not to get so caught up in it this time. 'S not that complicated."

The way he says it, it sounds nice. The way the cool skin of his fingertips glides attentively over Aziraphale's chest, over his ribcage, over his back, it _feels _nice. Aziraphale melts into it. His left hand winds its way behind Crowley's neck, and because he knows they both like it so much, he grabs at the short ends of the hair on the back of his head and clutches them into a loose fist. He isn't pulling Crowley's hair, but if Crowley moves and Aziraphale tightens his grip, it's a possibility. His other hand, still on Crowley's hip, starts tracing his outline. Up his torso, lingering in the indents between his ribs, around the flat, defined contour of his chest, over the tight core muscles of his stomach. Stroking. Up and down, up and down. He rests his head on the pillow next to Crowley's, his temple against the hard edge of the demon's cheekbone, his eyes cast downward so that he can admire what he's touching with his eyes as well as his hands.

If it had been less than a minute, Aziraphale would not have been surprised, and if it had been several days, he would not have been surprised. In reality, it's a handful of long, languid minutes; a near-half hour gone slow and syrupy with tenderness, before their gentle petting turns heavy. They're undressed, thanks to the assistance of a few pauses in which Crowley helped Aziraphale with the stubborn buttons of his nightshirt, helped himself out of the underwear that had suddenly become restrictive and uncomfortable. Where they couldn't assist each other, they waited impatiently, providing what contact they could and peppering any newly-exposed skin with welcoming kisses. Aziraphale is on top of him again, his left hand is back to holding fast to Crowley's hair, and their breathing comes hotter and heavier now, and their bodies have settled into each other. Where they're pressed together, Crowley's body heat now mimics Aziraphale's, and even where they aren't, it's significantly higher than it was. His ankles are hooked over Aziraphale's calves, but his legs are relaxed, fallen to either side of him on the mattress. Aziraphale is vividly aware, and has been for a while, of how far spread they are. Of how much he _isn't _occupying this sacred space that Crowley has opened up to him. He wants to rectify that.

His wandering hand, with a slight tremble of uncertainty, begins to snake down past his limited line of sight to the hidden region between Crowley’s legs. Sensing his hesitation, Crowley grabs his wrist, guides him down. Aziraphale feels his fingertips brush Crowley’s sex. The effort he’s made isn’t the one he normally does, and Aziraphale notices this too. A change in his anatomical appearance doesn’t necessarily mean something is _wrong_, but it can sometimes mean that something is _different_.

For now, Aziraphale explores. His fingers trace Crowley’s inner thighs, massage against the lines where they join his pelvic floor; they cup his pubic mound and slide their way delicately between the folds of him. Between each stroke and caress, he’s glancing up, checking. Crowley never makes any sign that he wants to stop. He’s quiet, like he was when Aziraphale was playing with his hair, a peaceful silence now punctuated by ragged breaths. His eyes are glazed, half-lidded, except when he notices Aziraphale watching him and they spark to life again with mischievous pleasure to flash him an encouraging grin.

And so Aziraphale continues, almost trance-like. Crowley is wet, so thickly and wantonly so, and Aziraphale can’t help but respond to that silent invitation. His fingers slide in so easily. Crowley’s back is instantly arched, playing to the angle that Aziraphale already knew to make, and a small, involuntary noise escapes the demon’s mouth. That’s another rarity, Aziraphale still has barely enough of a mind to note. He usually stays quiet, or at least manages to do so for much longer yet.

Crowley’s exterior may be hot now, but his interior is still a bit cooler to the touch. It warms quickly though, like a small stone that you roll in your hand. Aziraphale rolls his fingertips, crooking them just so and making a beckoning motion against Crowley’s inner wall. He can feel the soft texture of him, the gentle ribbing that lines this entrance. Crowley is responding to his fingers, fucking upward into every motion, and each time he engulfs Aziraphale up to the third knuckle the angel can feel how much he’s leaking. It’s intoxicating. He bites his lip.

”I want,” Aziraphale whispers, hiding his face in Crowley’s neck so that he might muffle his confession into it, “I want to be inside you. With more than just my fingers.”

Something flares hot in his stomach as he hears the words exit his own mouth, and he waits with bated breath for a response.

Crowley scoffs, a delighted little growl of a sound that puts Aziraphale instantly at ease, makes him suddenly wonder what it was he was so anxious about.

"Do it, then." Crowley says, simple as that. His tone curls upward at the edges with the sound of an eager smile.

And then Aziraphale is obeying him. The arrangement he's manifested is the one he and Crowley both choose as their favourite, the one that's more or less their default. Crowley takes it in his hand lasciviously as soon as it enters his range, gives the shaft of it a tender squeeze, rolls the skin back from its head. Aziraphale winces with the sudden pleasure that the simple touch sends jolting through his whole body. He submits to Crowley’s guidance, letting his lover lead him to his entrance. Aziraphale takes it slow, pushing himself in gradually, waiting and watching for any microexpression on Crowley’s part that might suggest pain or discomfort. There is none. The demon’s neck is craning his head back into the pillow, and as the last of Aziraphale’s length enters him, a moan escapes his parted lips. The sound is whole and rounded. Deliberate. _Is he teasing him?_

“Mh. My dear. Are you doing that on purpose?” Aziraphale asks. The sliver of bright yellow eyes and the sly grin that Crowley flashes him are all the answer he needs.

”Hnng, wouldn’t dream of it. You know me. Just loud.”

”Oh, I do know you.” Aziraphale counters with a chuckle. They share a breathy laugh, trading their warm exhalations in the scant space between them. He pulls himself out halfway, sinks back in again.

”Oh. Oh, I _know_ you.”

"Hm, you know me well." Crowley chuckles. He lifts his legs to hook his heels behind Aziraphale's hips. "You can know me a little harder than that, if you want."

Aziraphale glances up at him, a wide-eyed look that says _really__? _Crowley nods, with a smile that's patient and sympathetic of his partner's hesitation. _Yes, really_. And again, Aziraphale finds himself obeying his request, because damn it all if he doesn't want to. The next pumps of his hips come slightly faster, deeper, more forceful. Nearly every one is punctuated by a short growl of a moan that releases from deep in Crowley's throat, the part of his register that he only digs down to when he's really trying to be a bastard. It's working, too. Aziraphale grits his teeth, tries to block it out, because he can feel that the sound will make him spill over too soon if he lets it.

Crowley curves his lower back, changing the angle at which Aziraphale hits. It feels good, so good, for both of them. Aziraphale contributes to it, because he has a few tricks up his sleeve too, and adds a small hook to the end of each thrust. There's a needy croon mingling with Crowley's groans now, and for Aziraphale it isn't deliberate. It comes naturally and unbidden, flowing from him like water from a spring. On either side of him, Crowley's legs close tighter against his flanks, the muscles of them hard as a coiled spring as they fight Aziraphale's ribcage to constrict him.

Crowley's hands reach up around either side of Aziraphale's neck and his fingers lace together behind it. He pulls Aziraphale down, gently. Pulls their faces together. Aziraphale allows it. His eyes close as their lips meet, soft and warm. The sensation of belonging radiates from the contact each time ther mouths move in tandem against each other, spreading through their skin, penetrating their bones, consuming their souls like a slow burn. Aziraphale is still fucking lazily, softly, into Crowley, and Crowley meets him halfway with each thrust. The tip of Aziraphale's tongue ventures into Crowley's mouth, and he's surprised to find it instantly greeted by the spread fork of Crowley's. Crowley tips his head to the side, and at this angle, the positive and negative of their two tongues slot together with even more ease.

Crowley can do very strange things with his tongue.

Like lick it deep into Aziraphale's orifaces. Like tease its twin tips over his skin. When Aziraphale has the right equiptment - when he has what Crowley has now - there's something very special he can do with that.

Aziraphale pulls back from the kiss then, not because he wants to, but because he has to.

"Crowley," he warns breathlessly, "Can't do this much longer. I'm too close."

Crowley ignores him, uses the pressure of his heels against the angel's spine to pull him closer, squeezes him tighter between his legs.

"So am I," he says silkily, "So help me get there."

Aziraphale moans helplessly as Crowley pulls him back into another kiss. The Y-junction of his tongue is there again to pull Aziraphale's in, to caress it intimately between its split sides with every languid lick. And because he's a tease, because he's such a bloody _tease_, Crowley is moaning again to add insult to aching injury. The waves of that honey-sweet sound echo in the cavern of Aziraphale's mouth, they settle in his throat where his own involuntary outbursts take flight. He's only barely holding himself back. He tries to slow down, but Crowley senses his retreat before he can even commit to it and reaches a hand down to grab his backside, staying him. His fingernails dig into the flesh, and now Crowley is his puppeteer, the grip of his hand dictating the timing of Aziraphale's to-and-fro. He doesn't give him any slack.

"Crowley-" Aziraphale keens into Crowley's mouth.

"Sh." Crowley commands, and Aziraphale can hear hunger in it. "Harder."

Aziraphale cannot disobey. He whines his frustration even as he does as he's told, even as he is enveloped again into their kiss, which has turned messy and careless with desperation. Their teeth grind briefly against each other. They're breathing into each other's mouths, when they remember to breathe at all. Their sounds mingle together like animals. They sound like animals.

Aziraphale is on the cusp of it. His point of no return. He pulls back again, to tell Crowley, to say he really can't stand it anymore, but before he can find the words for any of it, it's Crowley who speaks first. He says the words that set Aziraphale free.

"Aziraphale." He whispers with a shadow of a tremor in his voice, "I love you."

The climax rips through both of them, long and loud and rolling and complete, a high tide of crashing waves, until it's done and the waters are still again.

Aziraphale doesn't even realise he's been saying it back until the end, until he's spent and his body has stilled, and he's still whispering _I love you. I love you._ into the crook of Crowley's neck with every breath. He's being held, by arms that are thin and dense with muscle. He's being held by the walls of an organ of pleasure that's ceased its contractions. He starts to pull out. Crowley hisses in his ear, "Gentle." Aziraphale listens. The remainder of his exit is cautious and slow.

And then they're tangled together in the dampened sheets, regaining their breath, wrapped around each other as tightly as they know how. Aziraphale's ear is pressed against Crowley's chest, and through his sternum, underneath the frantic beat of his heart, he can hear that something isn't quite right with his breathing. There's a shudder at the beginning of each inhale, and another at the end of each exhale. The angel lifts his head, looks up at Crowley. His eyes are distant.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale whispers.

"Don't leave." Crowley says under his breath. He tightens his hold. He grabs the nape of Aziraphale's neck, forces the angel's head back down into his chest. He's clinging to him for dear life. His muscles tremble every time his breath does. Aziraphale holds him right back, with his arms, with his body, and with so much more than just those mortal things.

"I'm not going anywhere," He says gently, and his sonorous voice is like a celestial harmony unto itself. It would have soothed any mortal creature instantly. Crowley is not a mortal creature, but it's doing its very best to work its ethereal magic on him regardless. "I'm staying here with you, my love."

"No," Crowley whispers, somewhere above him. "Not like that. The bookshop, angel. When it all happened. I thought-"

He doesn't divulge what he thought. He doesn't need to. The weight has already dropped onto Aziraphale's heart and his conscience.

"Ah." He says, weakly. He takes a deep breath, summons up the words.

"I won't be leaving in that way either. I can promise you that."

"Promises," Crowley interrupts, "Easily made, easily broken."

"It's not easily made, Crowley," Aziraphale says crossly, "I assure you I don't take such vows lightly either. If I give you my word, you can be - you can be _damn_ sure I mean it!"

The profanity had the intended effect. It froze Crowley completely still. He's listening now, really listening, not to the fears swirling in the fog of his own mind, but to Aziraphale. He'll hear him now.

"I won't go. Not under my own power, nor anyone else's. If they try to take me away from you, I'll break free. Just like I did last time. I promise you, Crowley. Nothing can take me away from you now."

There is a long pause. Then a breath, long and hard, rattles in and out of Crowley's lungs. His grip loosens slightly. His shivers stall themselves out.

"Alright." He says with a gulp, "Alright. I believe you."

"You best." Aziraphale scolds. They share a smile, slight, but as densely calming as a weighted blanket.

"I love you." Crowley scrounges up the courage to say. It sounds different afterwards than it does during, but Aziraphale can hear more than just the sound. He hears intent, too. Whether it's heated and teasing or tender and hesitant, whether it's confident or fearful, whether it sounds like "angel" or "Lift home?" or "I love you", pure and simple, just like that, Crowley means it the same each time. Wholly, devotedly, from the very pit of him.

Aziraphale means it too, means it exactly as strongly, when he says "I love you too."


End file.
